I know this was supposed to be the hair one,but it's not aka Tales from Childhood 1

I was a wonderfully precocious child. I say this with a mixture of pride and prejudice- HA!- because I cannot count the number of times my siblings have told me I was a much smarter kid than I am adult. So pride because I had memorized the entire periodic table and aspired to be an oceanographer,and prejudice because obviously I have a biased,rosy view of my excellence.

When I was 9,and in the 4th grade,I had a deep and abiding crush on several boys. Back then I could multitask. One of these young'uns was a boy called Brian. He was amusing. He thought he was so cool. He wasn't,but he looked the part. He was the guy in the group of guys who's second-in-command to the ringleader,and knows it. Not nearly as much poise,but there was something there. Technically, I wasn't supposed to like the ringleader,because he was my best friend. I still did,though. I've never been one for rules. Anyway,he would've laughed in my face had I confessed anything so I was on to the next one: Brian.

I unfortunately was not the only lass with secondary aspirations. My nemesis was one of my best friends,Valentina. She was pretty,and cool,and also liked Brian. I don't know how we were such good friends. One day,and I can't remember how it started,we begun to exchange words over who should back off from Brian. All of a sudden we were at the swings,throwing girly punches. I realize this was not very Abigail-like behavior,considering how passive-aggressive I am now,but what're you gonna do. I was 9 and apparently,very territorial. At the end of that fight,I had a bruised lip and a couple of her braids in my hand. And my favorite top was ripped a bit. But the next day we had lunch together.

And that,ladies and gentlemen,was my first and only catfight ever. I learned
1. Don't fight when you're in braids.
2. Or your favorite top.
3. It's easier to just toss a coin.
4. Or go on to the other 5 options.
5. Girls can be great friends and still hate each other. Twisted,I know.
6. Still haven't read Pride and Prejudice.

tSN

I don't know what to name this post.

The thing with school being over is that I now have time to listen to the rain falling outside my window. Which,really,is great,because now I do things like blog in the middle of the night and check out eeeeeeeveryone's websites. And facebook pages. In fact,I actually played the numbers game. Fun times. I had to resist the temptation to send my number to the people who liked the group called 'If you send me your number,I'll punch you in the face.' I'm not masochistic. Just easily amused.

Now,The Folks have noticed how much time and how little money I have on my hands (or not,actually). I'm convinced it's a control tactic. What am I saying? OF COURSE it's a control tactic. If they don't fund my exploits,there can't very well BE any exploits,can there. Smart. Probably something to do with the age thing.

So once again we come back to the problem of funding. MUST. FIND. JOB. Unfortunately,bumming does not pay (in salary form. In a healthy development of critical analysis of daytime tv? Oh yeah.). But finding a job in this our Kenya is not easy. Unless you're a...um...and it's irritating that the system is set up in such a way that I probably have to know someone to get anywhere. What IS that? Do I have to kiss the arse of The Man to get into the very system that I so detest? Don't people realize that everyone in the rat race is still a rat? Je,huu ni ungwana? We demand justice! *waving flag. Or something.* I'm not good with systems. It's why I don't comb my hair. *next post*

So in the interest of avoiding thieving and/or selling body parts, (HA! Pun intended,if you read the last post) I've been sending my cvs out to anyone who's anyone (that's not true. I'm trying to look industrious,but I'm actually very,very picky. Which works for my laziness). And Kenyan companies...oiyoyoi. My goodness,the depth of unprofessionalism that has seeped into the job market and bloody well built a city is ridiculous. It frustrates me to no end that companies do not have the decency to reply application emails. Even to say no,so I know,so I move on. Or to say,um,you're not what we're looking for. Or no,but we do need a cleaner for the 5th floor. Anything. If I ever run my own company,I'll reply the emails. Don't look at me like that. I will. But what's the point of a secretary? Or a human resource manager? I swear,Kenya is going to the dogs because of people like these. Not the serial killers,or the farters in crowded matatus-oh no. They who do not reply emails from poor jobless sweet innocent broke girls? Far,far worse.

I'm beginning to think I should've done med. Or law. Before you (and I) laugh,think about it. The job security is great. Because then I would know I'd get a job immediately after. AND I'd have a 'Dr.' next to my name after my FIRST degree. Plus,it sounds good with the ladies. (like that awesome instruction manual on the back of Axe 2-in-1 Shampoo and Conditioner: Wash. Attract. Repeat. :D) This mambo of cvs...inaniwaste,jo. I should sijui start my own business,no? And the thing that bugs me most #NARCISSISTalert is that when I become famous because I'm so awesome and talented,they'll be begging me to work for them. Nasty buggers.

Pet thinks they won't hire me anyway,because of my hair.

tSN

check out www.thegreencalabash.com. One of my personal favorites: Bringing Baby Home. :D

The beginning of the end of the beginning...of the end.

I finished school today. I did (to my knowledge) my last undergraduate paper ever. Now,ceteris peribus,it was my last paper,but maybe I'll get another degree. Or do a Masters. In which case,it's back to term papers,damnit.

The paper was pretty good. It was an art paper,so there were pictures of naked men I had to identify. That's never bad. Unless they're lewd flashers. I was flanked by JnttNemo and Nigmwa,and we all finished about the same time and sprung out of the exam hall jubilantly. Yup,I just used that word. Do you hear the harps?

Am I the only one who feels pressure when people walk out of the exam room,and you're not done? Even one person,really. I just feel a crap-I'm-not-done-hurry-you-slowpoke kinda uncomfortable feeling in my hand. It starts twitching like it wants to write faster and/or slap me.

The melancholy tone you think you hear in this post? You're right. I mean ok being done with term papers,don't get me wrong,is really,really awesome. But now,ati,I have to grow up. I'm out of excuses. I have to-GASP-start looking for meaningful employment/start a serious hustle *coughprostitutioncough*/ get married. Like,I have to come up with a useful contribution to society and The Folks. Who comes UP with these things?

I have to look for internships from stupid Kenyan companies who don't reply to your emails,even to say no or your cv is laughable,go get another degree. My supply of pocket money from school stops! *voice breaking* no more loose shopping trips or skiving school because that's where you're supposed to be so that's where you're not...no more excuses like groupwork for coming home late...no more conning The Folks for school trips that don't exist...which I never did! See? I'm SO not ready for the real world! I like cocoons and denial. They're really quite comfortable places to be.

There's culture shock coming my way. A devirgination of my pampered,school child self. There's no protection! Sigh. Maybe I'll just become like that chick from Girlfriends and get 6 degrees because I'm scared of getting a job. Plan? YES!!

I guess,on the plus side,no more Thika Road.

The Nice Watchman

No,this is not the title of a fairy tale.

Quick digression,pills are annoying. The ones that you have to pop out. They fly everywhere sometimes. Very annoying.

Onto the take of our valiant hero! *cue theme music of the heroic persuasion* Usually I can't stand that particular breed of human. But sometimes,one comes along to make me change my mind. For instance,the one from my limber and youthful days when skiving the digz to go for the rave was commonplace. Story for another day. But he never told on me,and always kept an eye out in case Dad was having a late night and chose that moment to show up,when I was pausing like a...well,errant daughter before the headlights about to meet inevitable doom.

The keys were in the Merc. Roger and Mr.M. decided the best way to do this would be to try and jimmy the windows down. But that would ruin the piping...thingy. The next option was to jimmy the lock. Natsing. Then,through the boot. Fortunately the boot's opening and closing had nothing to do with the key. So Roger climbs into the boot to find the catch that'll pop the backseat forward...natsing. But then he randomly pops the speakers out. So now the plan becomes to build a contraption flexible and strong enough to push through the speakers,down the seat,hook the keys and carry them out.

3 hours later-well,it felt like. It was probably like one-,natsing. We've tried branches,hands,sticks,second opinions and prayer and the keys have thumbed their noses at us like booyah,who's the chicken now and other mocking chants. Then a watchman walks by. Who we ask to go get us a hanger from the residential area he watches. Which he does. Which doesn't work. So he gets a longer wire. Mr.M. twists it into a viable rescue tool. Roger climbs into the boot,pushes the wire through the speaker hole...and gets the keys right when the owner of the car is round the bend.

Nice watchie. Roger needed a full body massage after that which I clearly could not give him. I took out my gratitude on Mr.M. Clearly fate knew he just needed to come. So lunch was my treat,the next day. Paid for by my niece,because he had taken her through the wire. With a wire. Ha.

Of Marriages and Mercedes,2

Mr. M came to the wedding with Roger. Let me get this out real quick...Roger is so many kinds of fine,it's nearly impossible to see anyone else beside the halo that surrounds his divinely crafted features. It's pleasantly distracting. But you know,the problem with the bro code is that him and I will never happen,because Mr. M and I already did. Kinda sucks. Is it...generous...of me to want it-erm,them,all? And evil to wish that in another time,it could be done? Oh well.

I was of course sitting at the front,so I watched him walk in 2 hours late. He then proceeded to start texting me during the service. Yup,when the cameras were focused on everyone in the front. Yes,me included. Fortunately,I had craftily hidden my phone in my bouquet. Hahaha! Hahahahaha! Fie,ye anti-texting-during-formal-stuff gods!

The photo shoot...then the reception. I was generally being a bad bridesmaid and escaping periodically from the bridal party...yes,while the speeches were going on...yes,everyone could see me. And why? To chill with Mr. M. For some reason,I felt the need to be around him that day. No,it wasn't what you think it was. Whatever it is you're thinking.

As he was about to leave,my niece locked the keys in the Mercedes. Which had no spare key. And we didn't have a jack,or any Chuck Norris/Daniel Craig/superhero-who-can-unlock-stuff-with-his-mind capabilities to help us open the door. So we were supposed to get the keys out before my cousins noticed that they couldn't get home. To pile the pressure on,the reception was nearly over and my cousin had a court case the next day...and the briefs he needed were in the car...

Of Marriages and Mercedes

Writing that title makes me think of 2 things. First,what is the plural of Mercedes,written? I mean really. And second,remember that episode of Fresh Prince of Bel Air when Carlton,bless his soul,has a fiancee called Mercedes? Priceless. Iiin West Philadelphia,born and raised...

I'm not the biggest fan of weddings,marriages,pre-nuptial agreements ngurarios(sp?)/ayies and/or receptions. Practically the only part of any wedding I'm slightly inclined to is the thought of getting hitched in Las Vegas with a poorly done yet amusing impersonation of Elvis as my officiating priest. Other than that...zilch. )More on that in another post.) So when my cousin decided I should be in his lineup,my cold feet were comparable only to if I was getting married myself. However,in a brief and what turned out to be fatal moment of insanity,I was convinced to be a bridesmaid.

During my lunch with Mr. M,I told him of my bridezilla woes. He laughed indulgently and told me gently to strap on a pair. I pouted until he said, "Can I come?"

In case you were wondering,OF COURSE THERE WAS HESITATION!! That's not a very FWB gesture,is it? And if it's not,then what does it mean? What the hell was Mr. M. trying to say? And did I really want him to see me swathed in layers of pink? (They claimed it was fuschia. Ha.)

"No."
"Why?"
"Because I'll be in the lineup. You'll barely see me."
"I'll bring Roger."
"And make him sit through a wedding ceremony? For heaven's sake!"
"I want to come."
"Well,I don't want you to."
"Where is it?"
"I don't know and/or I'm not telling you."
"I'll just call your cousin and find out." Crap. This situation was rapidly deteriorating,and not in my favor. Why the hell was he so bent on this wedding?

Idiots should have badges so we can quickly identify and avoid *cough confine cough* them aka stay at home if I think you shouldn't be let out in public aka In a parallel universe,you're extinct because your species has been phased out.

Now,you all know I am Supporter Numero Uno of enthusiastic drug use. Penicillin,Ponstan,Piriton,you name it,I'll endorse it. But sometimes,I'm wrong about drugs. Yes. I just admitted that it is possible for me to be wrong. This happens once maybe every 5 years (euphemism for decade)

The Girls and I were at the club over the weekend. Good times were had all around,and at the end of the night we all bundled into the car. SNK backed it up (the car) into the alley and then another car randomly appeared and refused to budge.

So we ask dude to move his car. He's like no. And moves it closer. We're thinking ok what's dude's plan here...PK gets out of the car to ask him to move back and he just moves it closer...and closer...we're hypeventilating now,and then with one final nudge,dude deliberately hits the bumper.

We got out of the car,but there was no point. Dude was ridiculously drunk and for some reason he felt like he had a point to prove,and he thought he was right. There was no ati making the sot see logic. So we got into the car and drove away.

I could wax lyrical for a while on the evils of idiots who can't handle their liquor. But I've heard it all before,as have you. I'm currently taking comfort in the fact that karma has to exist-either he'll be fired,jailed,**** or I get to meet him in a dark alley. Something's gotta give. Sijui they should only start giving out alcohol if you have a maturity license with past offences and everything? Oh,was THAT the point of the constitution?

In other news,Mr. M. wants to come for a wedding with me. Next post.

tSN

ps. Check out pikchaguy.wordpress.com.

Observations

We are our own worst enemies when it comes to justice. Mankind has a tendency to always make a more valiant attempt to keep the other man down than to lift him up. Not only that,we are also more likely to not speak up for our rights,and let injustices pass us by. Which is why ugly history keeps repeating itself.

I was in a jav the other day with my niece DeeDee. We were already irritated that the first mat we had taken dropped us really far from where we were. So now we got onto another one. The condi was trying to put 4 people in the backseat. One of them was a woman with her infant child. DeeDee took one look at them coming our way and said no. She started causing for the condi like why the hell would you do that to people in a jav when there's space for 3,hata kama ni pesa...and wondering why the woman would do that to herself and her child. She made a good point...we should not allow stuff like that to go down.

Jana I was in a jav where I was squished on the condi's seat,with someone else. My rear was pressed against the door,conveniently right at the spot where I had just been injected last week. *sigh* I saw that that jav was full,and I still got into it. I allowed these perpetrators of injustice to continue their reign of terror. *cue theme music* But enyewe I shouldn't have gotten into that mat. But education is a damage,and it was raining. *sigh*

In other news,the manfast is going great,except for one man (whose reign of not so terrible terror I have allowed to continue). The idea is,you don't go on a fast because there's nothing around to eat. You go on a fast so as to maintain control when there is a veritable feast laid out in front of you. Now,the catch is,you can be fine neglecting everything else on the table,except that one dish. You know that dish. The one that you haven't had in ages,and the last time you did you didn't finish...let's just say you and the dish have unfinished business,and seeing it during your fast has you pinning a napkin on and starting a food chant,because it's probably going to get ugly. It is very hard to fast when you're simply not done yet,especially when you're trying to move on to the next course.

Mr. M. was my unfinished business. I could resist all but him. It was even easy to stop with everyone else,or simply not start. Unfortunately...not him. Now with him...with him,I definitely was my own worst enemy. And I couldn't figure out what to do about that. Which I had to soon,because we were having lunch this week. And I felt like a fly,winging my way into the sticky spider's web.

tSN

ps. Check out www.diasporadical.wordpress.com.

Maroon 5

Monday morning,rain is pouring. I'm sitting in a jav. It's 8:40. I should be on Thika Road by now,on my way to my 9 o'clock class. I get the feeling I'm going to be late. Luckily,this class isn't one of those ones that there'll be hell to pay for if I'm late. The lecturer's kinda cute. (I say kinda when I mean is,but you're not supposed to say such things about your lecturers,so I'm trying to downplay the situation. Without much success.)

The traffic is so bad,the jav decides to take the alternative and illegal route. Unfortunately,he decides this in the middle of the journey with a careless 'Wacha waseme.' Thus,disgruntled customers have to get off the jav. I totally sympathize. Not the greatest way to start a Monday. He probably has a lot of bad karma being sent his way. I,however,am listening to Rock steady on Classic. Whoop. Nothing like soul to make you forget about the drudgery of education.

Still in traffic. I look up to the apartments that we're passing by,and there's a dude calmly sitting on his balcony,taking a smoke,watching the traffic with the unconcerned air of one who won't have to bother with it today. I envy him with a deep envy that only those lodged in between a ditch and a truck seeing their life flash before their eyes can appreciate.

And all of a sudden,I am seized by a flash of inspiration. That's what I should do with my life! To avoid traffic,stuffy javs,waking up at ungodly hours and such mundane yet depressing events...I should become a housewife. I could wake up at 10,and leisurely have breakfast on my balcony while chortling elegantly at the poor suckers down below,have lunch at 2,supervise the help...it could be a wonderful world. Like Zain. The hardest thing I'd do all day would be to put on negligee for one he shows up. Unless that would be too much energy in itself. Which,if you look at the bigger picture,is a good thing. I could stay up late watching TCM movies,and sipping hot chocolate by an electric fire oh look the traffic's moving.

Today's reflections

I don't care what everyone says,drugs are your friend. This is my constant resounding refrain everytime I get tonsilitis. Like now. During my lovely 5 day weekend,I was thoroughly rained on while trying to make my way to Slam Africa. Thus,my tonsils inflamed and I am now sick. And not just a normal kind of pop-a-couple-of-amoxils-and-you'll-be-fine type. Nope. The septic kind. It's really gross. I'll spare you the details and just say it involves pus.

Not to be deterred from my perenially upbeat and positive attitude,I have realized there are a number of things that are wonderful about being sick. For one,everyone seems to want to take care of you. 'Can you walk?' Yes. I'm sick,not maimed. 'Shall I feed you?' refer to above quote...however,to be fair,I have been a tad woozy,so I suppose the questions are warranted. I will not look a gift horse in the mouth when it wants to give me a ride.

So I was chilling at the digz on Sunday,and someone knocked on the door. It was the hot mama from #1. Literally,hot mama. She has 3 kids and looks 25,speaks fluent French and has the body of a petite temptress. It must be hard for guys nowadays to hit on women. Half of the girls on the street have children,but certainly don't look like it. Moms are getting younger and younger. Which is fine,just...confusing. If I was having children,I'd be severely disturbed by the competition.

Ideally,I should've stayed home to recuperate,but I don't like to miss class. Plus I had an exam. So off I went to school. Messy,that. By Wednesday,though,I was like,meh,school's overrated. So I went to the dispensary to get more drugs (yay). The doc told me the drugs I'd been taking were doing nothing so he prescribed some new stuff. I gave the prescription in,then the dude goes follow me. So I follow him and he takes out a syringe. So I'm thinking oh ok,he wants to inject something into my tonsils. Or something. Then he goes I'm going to need you to pull down your pants,or would you prefer to lie down?

The last time I had a butt injection...actually,I can't remember the last time. I was a combination of amused and numb. Wish my rear was numb too,I don't do well with pain. By the way,this is why your mother always tells you to wear nice underwear everyday. After he massaged the tender area,we had a pleasant conversation about whether or not I should remove my tonsils. I then proceeded to get on the bus,sit down gingerly,and go home.

You see this is the great thing about school. (yeah,can't believe I just wrote that either) You have a choice. Class is kinda optional,really. The rat race has no such leeways,and much worse repurcussions. You can't just...leave. And plus,it's a bit like you're being paid to go to school. They give you pocket money and your own room. I totally get the chick from Girlfriends who has 6 degrees because she's scared to get out into the real world. She's the hottest one,in my opinion. She's also probably a mom.

I think I'll have another 5 day weekend. Just for kicks. (and for the sake of recuperation,and the fact that I won't be able to do this from like next year. But we'll go with kicks.)

tSN

Ps. Check out www.sammyonyancha.blogspot.com

Of Wiles and Women

Ideally,a manfast is me not doing anything with any men-or boys-or males,generally-for a pre-arranged period of time. Who agrees amongst themselves? Me. Though this does tend to make me sound schizophrenic.

Thing is,I'm not good at keeping away. As is clearly evidenced,the male species is the exact definition of a paradox of desires. I want,but then again,I really,really don't.

Maybe the real problem is I know too many boys. Age makes no difference here,I might add. So what does? I guess maturity. And what defines maturity? Different things for different-ok that's another post. But yeah. Too many boys. And I'm a woman. Hear me roar.

Now,the type of woman I am is the assertive type. You know the kind-I know what I want,and I am more likely to go out and get it instead of sitting in a corner in the club waiting for you to notice how cute I look. Games tire me-but that could have more to do with laziness than womanhood. I'm beginning to think,though,that the assertive woman is a dying breed. Men (boys?),for some reason,are into a subservient breed of woman who just lets them take control. I've had a couple of arguments in the past week about how a woman should let the man control the joint bank account that she finances because he doesn't have a job. !!! Then again,I'm not married,so how would I know what works.

I digress. Sometimes I think my aggression may be the reason I get myself into man trouble. It may set a precedent for a man to stop working for me because he knows I'm going to do all the work. (Then again,it may not) So I decided,I'm going to stop hitting on guys,and let them come to me. This alien concept would go for a month. And then maybe I could finally prove if it's them-or me.

Day 1.

tSN

ps. Check out www.antonyhimself.blogspot.com

A New Dawn

Mr. M. pretends he’s not used to my madness, but he is. It’s perfectly normal for me to make him be my pretend boyfriend. Better the devil you know, right? I’ve had some really random experiences with making strangers my pretend boyfriends. Especially when they’re sexually confused. But that’s a story for another day.

We put KK into Mr. M’s car. When we got to her apartment, we carried her in together. She wetly kissed his chin as she tumbled into her bed. Mr. M. looked at me and said “Yeah, you owe me big time.”
“It’s not my fault!” I said weakly.
“Uh huh.” We got back into his car and started the drive to my place in companionable silence. The thing with Mr. M. and I, we’ve always had an agreement. A very on-an-off one, but an agreement nonetheless. Because of our history, we don’t have to talk too much, and there’s no awkwardness between us. Comfortable.
He pulled up to the parking in front of my apartment and switched off the car.

“Thanks.”
“No problem.” Pause. “So what do I get?”

Crap. I had seen that coming but had been hoping it had taken a convenient detour. Then all of a sudden it dawned on me that I may be those mamas who are addicted to the drama of guys. Like, there was always a stream of men in my life, whether potential candidates (Yu), current candidates (Zain), the-next-one-who-doesn’t know-it-yet (Bharti), the side dish while I’m getting him (Orange), the option who will never be an option but thinks he is (Safaricom)... I couldn’t just be truly single, a factor that has resulted in Mr. M-like situations. My life was becoming a deja-moo (feeling you’ve seen this bullshit before).

So as I sat in that car figuring this out (in a split second of course, because I’m a genius), I decided that I didn’t feel like owing Mr. M. anything. Because of the nature of us, I had that option – of choosing not to – I just didn’t usually pick it. Mr. M. is a biter. ‘Nuff said.

“We’ll do lunch.” There was a sliver of surprise, well-covered. “Ok. Call me.” I got out of the car and walked to my door. He drove away.

Maybe it was time for a manfast.

tSN

p.s. Check out www.gettingontherunway.blogspot.com

Complications

So I like a well-planned threesome. Sue me. (it's all in the detail,I swear) This,however,was not going to be one of them. I could tell. With threesomes,as with 69s and the banana ride at Luna Park (no pun intended),you need a certain level of inspiration for it to come together.

I wasn't necessarily feeling überinspired that night. But the door of the club was coming ever closer. Escape was my only option. I stopped walking. 'I'm not coming.'
'Why?' They both said. Still bleary! Really?

Now this put me in the position of having to come up with a quick handy and believable excuse. As was glaringly apparent,I did,in fact,want to come. The only reason I was antsy was a,you don't just have a threesome with any Tom Dick and Harry. Just Tom and Dick would be fine. But you see when you replace Dick with Rachel,it becomes complicated. Women are incredibly prone to feeling slighted if Tom prefers Rachel. Especially if it 2 of the 3 are a couple. Which JavaGuy and I weren't. Ok,ok. I was being selfish. More legal action.

Reason B would be really,I just met the guy. Kind of. I mean,I didn't even know his last name. The thought of a one-night-stand-particularly a pretty freaky one like this one-went against every fibre of my being. One word-Herpes. That's ALL I'm saying. In a parallel universe,disease doesn't matter. However,earthling,here,it does.

'My boyfriend is over there.' I said. Tonight was just one of those nights when I wasn't saying the wisest things. And I couldn't prove them,either.
'Oh really?' JavaGuy's eyebrow raised. KK started giggling. So much for moral support. 'Let's go say hi,' she said. Ok so maybe I have a slight problem with confrontation. Lying is easier. *subpoena* I began to look frantically around the club for someone I knew well enough to make my boyfriend. Too drunk...too gay...too short...
And the day was saved,thanks to...Mr.M. I got to him first,next to the bar. 'I'll owe you if you just play along,' I muttered. 'This is my boyfriend,M.' I exclaimed with too bright a smile.
'Hi.' JavaGuy. 'M! Long time never-uh,no see.' KK. 'I have to go,' said JavaGuy abruptly. 'Playing games isn't really my thing.'

I breathed a sigh of relief as he walked away from the bar. KK turned to me,said 'Cockblocker.' and passed out.

tSN

Ps. Check out http://bourgeoisewithoutboho.blogspot.com

:o)

Wanna be on tv?

A quick commercial break...I need people to talk about my blog on telly,so answer these 3 questions asap. Please note that all the answers are contained in the blog...mostly. :o)
1. Who is tSN's least favorite Batman?
2. Which of The Girls rates men using their business cards?
3. What does tSN do?

The most innovative and interesting answers get to...well,I'll let you know later. :o) Email your responses to theepicherself@yahoo.com. Good luck,and stay tuned for the next misadventures of JavaGuy. :o) :o) :*

People peeves

1. People who take your shit and don't give it back. I've been wishing maggots on this evil species.

2. People who think you have to be 2mm behind me on a line. Ever heard of freakin personal space? It's not an urban myth. GTFO of my space.

3. People who think it's ok to take advantage of others weaker than themselves. You know,politicians.

4. Know-it-alls who don't know it all.

5. Homophobes.

6. Pastors who automatically assume you're evil,and that you need saving.

7. People who borrow your shit...then lose it...then don't tell you.

8. Condis who tell you less to get you in then front like they said no such thing.

9. Irresponsible group members. *nightmare*

10. Televangelists/random folk who make random churches and give them dodgy names then decide they want to be politicians and drag people down with them. *ahem*

tSN

Britney Spears

Usually,I laugh at such situations. I mean,you find your friend making out with a guy you were just making out with 3 and a half minutes ago...what's your typical reaction,really? Is there a predefined set of rules that directs you on how one should behave (as opposed to making some up on the spot)? I didn't get that memo. So I stared for a bit at the writhing mass that was KK and JavaGuy,before laughing.

And thus they came up for air,a tad bleary-eyed but not worse for the wear...if that's what we're calling it nowadays. I stopped laughing,because it stopped being funny and started feeling...what's that word? Awkward.

'So.' Yeah. In that brief moment of intense brilliance,THAT'S what I chose to go with.
'So.' *as he looks completely nonchalant,and KK just looks tipsy. Stop copying my lines! Digression here. What do I say? Expletives flow,but I have no claim. The monster-both the one that got me into this mess and the green-eyed one-are still clamoring loudly,like especially rude children. But..he's not mine. Why should I be vaguely annoyed? Sharing is caring,right?*

'Um.' Wow. I was the epitome of eloquence tonight,really. I was even blowing MYSELF away. Which,really,it was beginning to look like I would be doing. Just me and my hand tonight. Menage á moi.

'Are you ready to go?' Did he just...well,judging from the expectant look on his face,I think that IS what he just said. So we were going to act like he hadn't JUST been-
'I know I am,' said KK,giggling.

WHOA!! Clearly I was missing something here!! So in quick succession,JavaGuy takes her hand,AND mine,and before I could say-well,anything,really,all three of us were headed out the door.

!!!??!!!

tSN

1 in the morning

Inspired by @EdwinBaru,who is probably also writing a blogpost in the club.

1. Wtf? Nigga,you can't hit on a girl and her sister at the same time in the same club. At least wait until one of them go to the bathroom.

2. I am probably the only person in the world who doesn't like the song Renée by Lost Boyz. That's a stupid song. The rhymes are wack. Period.

3. If you value yourself in any way at all,quit allowing yourself to be abused. Whether that is in relation to abusive relationships or still being on Safaricom. Oh,wait. Same thing.

4. Bongo is GENIUS. As in? Kwanza that song Nakudata by Radio and Weasel. GOOD TIMES.

5. Don't be mad when you get ditched at the club by who you came with for a quickie. Satisfying carnal needs is extremely constructive. Go do something helpful like get drunk so you don't notice or call them every 5 minutes so that...um...

6. What is it with obes and lollipops?

7. Another genius song- Lollipop,Lil Wayne.

8. Family rocks. Especially cousins. As does Kisumu and chocolate milkshakes from Dormans.

9. Eating fries in the club is so gangsta.

10. What's all this stigmatization surrounding wearing underwear? Dude. We live in a tropical country. You don't need more layers of clothing.

Time to go check out Quorum. :*

tSN

A turn of events

Then he said "How about we just go back to my place?"

There come several times in every woman's life when she realizes that it has been forever since she was kissed. Or touched. Or held. It awakens a sleeping monster that whispers in her ear that she needs to make sure she's not completely undesirable to the opposite sex. Other than the needs that need to be met and the body parts clamoring for a little affection,a girl needs to get physical. Truth be told.

And so,every broad-shouldered well-toned smooth-talking specimen of pectoral perfection begins to look like a feasible option. If these needs are not catered to,the situation deteriorates to a point that the men they lust after do not necessarily have to fit the necessary criteria (average-looking,has a job,is single,is not my ex),which is detrimental for everyone involved.

KK and I sat at the bar for exactly 4 minutes before JavaGuy showed up. Chivalry,like punctuality,is a dying art,so I was suitably impressed with his attempt. This being the first time I'd studied him up close,my eyes were immediately drawn to his lips. *enter the monster* The banter began. Casual conversation,cocktails,loosened tongues...at some point,KK was distracted by a persistent old flame,and JavaGuy and I were left to our own devices. Needless to say,the sexual tension that I promptly blamed on the alcohol was fueled by said monster...and thus,we ended up forgetting that we were at a public bar. And then he said..."How about we just go back to my place?"

I was trying really hard to think of a reason not to go. I didn't want to? Definitely not it. I most definitely wanted to. Too early?...who cares? Um...um...
"I'm going to the ladies,then we can go." I got up. Finished my business and came back,ready and revved up to go...and there was JavaGuy,with KK-but the way their lips were locked,I couldn't tell who was who. 

The miracle of modernity

If you are Christian,you believe that about 6 thousand years ago,God,the almighty omniscient one,created man,in his own image. If you're atheist,you don't. Either way,man showed up. (the whole universe was in a ... Then nearly ... Expansion started-wait-math science history unravelling the mystery that all started with the Big Bang. But I digress.)
Man,being superior to all other created - or contrived - beings,was thus relegated to rulerdude status. He was presumed most intelligent,and most worthy-something present-day man seems to have lost-and therefore most capable of rule over the birds and the bees,among other species.
Man invented several incredibly useful things,such as the wheel,french fries and clothing that grew succesively smaller throughout the ages. He found which drugs worked best with which to cure melancholia,sobriety and tonsilitis (which I,unfortunately,have now. But I digress.). He made appliances such as barbecue grills,telescopes and planes. Among these wondrous inventions was the bathroom.
The bathroom consisted of a bathtub,or a shower (which proved to be very convenient for some adventurous women) and a toilet. There was also a sink,for brushing teeth,and washing hands. This magical room was conveniently located in the house. Very important,as before a certain time,outhouses were just that-outside.
But modern man began to regress. He felt the need to refuse to use the bathroom for the purposes it was intended for. (this turned out to be a problem as well for other aspects of his life. But I digress.) All of a sudden,modern man had the audacity to demand that modern woman carry a jug of water and a basin,come to where he was and wash his hands.
Modern woman was baffled. Surely the point of inventions and ingenuity was that she did not have to do such things? But modern man insisted on it. So much so,that it became a bone of contention- whether as a sign of submission or archaism,or the merging of tradition and modernity.
Some modern women caved to the pressures of modern man. However,some caved only because it was not their house and they could not refuse,as they were still under parental sustenance. Some remained stalwart in their convictions.
The moral of this rant is that please believe when you come to my house,you are using the damn bathroom. And say yes to drugs. :o)

Good Hair...um...

Ok so the first time I ever thought Ice T was cool was when I saw him in the Chris Rock documentary, Good Hair. There’s a part they’re talking about how relaxer is creamy crack (lol) and Ice T goes ‘In high school, when I first got relaxer in my hair, it was a measure of how cool you were. In fact, those dudes who was real gangster came to class with rollers in their hair…the yellow ones were less cool coz they meant you had less hair, but the orange ones made you a god. I actually had one mug shot taken in rollers.’

There are quite a number of grown ass men talking about how they had relaxer in their hair, some of them main men of Black history. Reverend Al Sharpton. James Brown (he doesn’t talk about it, obviously, but we see pictures). Ice T (who wasn’t cool….till he admitted in public that he likes girly hair. I’m into truth. Hehe) .This hair shit has gotten to the guys too, right about the same time it got to women. But why the hell is everyone s obsessed with making black hair look – pardon me – white? Because that’s basically what relaxer does. Make it straight instead of nappy. Or kinky. In my world, kinky is a GOOD thing…isn’t it? :o)

I’m female, and even *I* don’t understand the fascination women have with hair. My hair has caused me nothing but pain since my conception. Ok, after the age of 3. I got my hair relaxed when I was 8. And it was in braids for most of the time till I was 12, something that resulted in constant waterworks. We had this vicious hairdresser who made house calls – or maybe I was just tenderheaded – called Zemzem. Doesn’t that just sound like the dude with the saw in a horror movie? Just playing. She was doing her job but DAMN. Years and years of trauma. I can’t even braid my hair anymore.

Women spend so many hours of their lives that they can never get back in a salon. I can’t comprehend it. Which is why when I was 17, I cut my hair. And again when I turned 21. At this rate it’s going to be this length for a while. I‘m thinking of channeling an afro. But I feel blessed that I don’t have to comb it, press it, relax it, treat it, roll it, cover it, dye it, braid it, style it, weave it, crimp it, curl it, flat iron it – in other words, pretty much idolize it – every damn morning. And guess what? I can dance in the rain because it won’t cost me 3k in damage control. Barber, anyone?

.............

-yawn-

There’s something about the female body that makes me greedy. I lose myself in the curves of feminine anatomy; I gladly relinquish control to my so-called carnal desires and dive joyously into pleasure’s waters on a regular basis. I’m your atypical whore.

-stretch-

I say atypical because I’ve made it an art. Women themselves are masterpieces, and therefore bedding them is not a skill just anyone can acquire. (I suppose that rule doesn’t apply for women of certain professions) It fascinates me to find exactly which method of seduction a woman will respond to; what matters is not the time I take to chase, but what the chase will eventually end up as. I guess you could call that…the victory party.

-open one eye-

Speaking of women of certain professions, I’m all for legalizing it. Too much fuss over something that’s going to go on anyway. People need to get off their high horses and stop pretending that we’re a solely religious socialist nation. And besides…at least half of the women not doing it professionally do it for free anyway. Folks just need to WRAP IT UP.

-notice there’s someone next to me-

And it all comes back to me.
I had an agreeably blurry night…the kind that you can remember the good bits and still judge if the mama you’re going home with is actually hot, but tinged with an acceptable level of tipsy happiness. I know I wasn’t unruly – not really my style - and I know I didn’t come home with anyone…so who was this?

-she turns, still sleeping-

Ah. Yes. Fumbling with the key to my apartment at 3 in the morning. A hand helping me – the next door neighbour’s pretty wife who I’ve always thought is secretly a freak. I ask no questions as to why she’s in the hallway at 3 in the morning, because many questions get you expansive space for a bedfellow. Then…more fumbling. *disclaimer…blame it*

-****!-
The neighbour’s wife. Ok. Well. This is manageable. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, it’s just that…it wasn’t usually the next door neighbour. Granted, I don’t like the fool, but still.

-she’s awake. She smiles and says “Morning.”-

She has a glint in her eye. I generally like glints. They’re a foreshadowing of good things to come. Maybe this whole next door neighbour thing could work out. There’s no denying the convenience…and the forbidden fruit appeal never, ever dies.

-my phone beeps. I climb out of bed to take it in the living room.-

I don’t necessarily remember which one the one who called is, but her voice on the phone holds great promise. Looks like I have a date this evening. I walk back into the bedroom. She’s propped up on her elbow and watches me walk in. “Are we going to use that?”

I smile.

-waste not,want not-

……………………………………………………………………………………….JavaGuy

KARACHUONYO…KNOWS HOW TO PARTY…

The Travels, Part 2

Wow. You know things are serious when it takes longer to get to your shags than it does to get to Arusha. Note that your shags is in Kenya and Arusha is not.

I come from a place where waking up in the morning gives you an absolutely spectacular view of the sun rising over the lake. It stretches out before you, this beautiful blue (really long) jewel adorning the horizon…it’s glorious. I unfortunately, never woke up early enough to see this. I’m almost ashamed, but sleep is a very, very demanding mistress.

Finding network in shags resembles a séance. Very closely, I might add. There is much hand-waving (you holding your phone), strobe lighting (afore-mentioned phone), and chanting (you pleading with your subscriber to end this inhumane torture). I wondered why network seemed to never be where I was. The only spirits I managed to conjure up were those of dead mosquitoes, who resurrected to join the live ones, or so it seemed, and proceeded to form a choir. I tell you no lie. There were so many, there were four voices of buzzing: Soprano, Alto, Tenor, and I think what can qualify as a baritone. The basses were missing in action. I’ve never been so tearfully thankful for a mosquito net.

In shags, things that go bump in the night cannot be put down to random city sounds. Oh, no. Things that go bump in the night are huge, and are bumping. Make no mistake. They are rats, or bats (flying rats) or cats (who can’t do anything about the flying rats, unfortunately, but help with the ground ones), or hyenas, or the extra-large nameless things…that go bump in the night to terrorize little girls who stay up conducting séances late into the night. That, or the Mosquito Mixed Choir.

Speaking of mutants, all critters are extra-large. I reverted back to childhood games briefly, and played Peek-a-Boo with a gargantuan moth. Only, it was the adult instead of me. And in the daytime too! Whatever happened to sweet little daytime butterflies? Hmmm…or WAS it a butterfly and my eyes were too tightly closed to care to confirm? They are fearless, these brazen upcountry insects. What a scene it would have been had I actually seen something I’m afraid of…although me trying to stitch my eyes together with sheer will so as to not see the shadow of the wings coming my way may have been just such a scene. At least I didn’t scream. Small mercies.

Fortunately, we have indoor plumbing. It is similar to that in Lagos, where water may or may not be provided for the entire duration of the shower. Only in Lagos, these are forces of corruption, and in Karachuonyo, they are forces of nature. I hope. Or…the bugs?

Irrational cravings seized me frequently. Made even more so absurd by the complete incapability to fulfill these cravings. Simple thins were what I wanted; chocolate fudge cake. Traffic. Noise. Pollution. Working radio – or rather, to know what the radio stations even were…but the two TV channels did compensate enormously (although electricity was limited to 4 hours per night. Big mercies.). I was however much afeared that I would start watching those random Citizen Soaps (Paradise in your Storm, The Woman Who Cries A Lot, The Men who Join In, etc). What saved me was the library. Another reversion to the childhood habit of reading 3 – 5 books a day. Not too bad at all. :o)

I’ve never noticed that most women in Dala cover their hair a lot. The entire time I was there, I think my mother and I were the only ones walking about with our hair in view.

The trip back was assuaged with doubts. The bus strike had been just the day before, which insinuated that going back to the city may have been put off for another 4 days….days I could not stomach. Another séance was conducted – for transportation, this time, and it came through. Now, on the bus, I discovered that truly, African children are not being brought up the way they used to be. There were 2 babies on board. It was like they were in a band. They would alternate crying like they were singing background vocals, dude, I think there were harmonies. And there mothers would just shush them – to no effect, I might add. One tot burst into ululations. Such liberties! Before my time, the slaps would have been much, much more resounding then their wailing/crying. What’s that? Child abuse, you say?

Then there came the DVDs that they insist on showing…there was Ohangla with the girls dancing in what appeared to be a form of soft porn…for real…and the guys were fashion disasters from the 90s in off-shoulder tops. Shiver. There was a marked contrast when they put in the gospel DVDs. Which all kind of sound like the same tune. One that was particularly amusing started like a horror/thriller movie. I was momentarily piqued until I saw the characteristic matching uniforms and scenery.

Then came Nairobi. First sign? Being stuck in traffic on Waiyaki Way. Smog sweet smog. :o)

p.s. The Loop on KTN is hilarious. I love the humor. It’s unexpected but expected. Because. You know. It’s a sitcom. And the guy looks like Dr. Kelso from Scrubs. Wait, ISN’T it Dr. Kelso?

MOMBASA RAHA!!

The Travels, Part 1

School was out and the coastline beckoned. Hence Jo, Kimberley and I headed down under, kind of, for a deserved (but doesn’t everyone deserve a holiday? I mean, dude. It’s a holiday. It’s not like there’s a quota.) holiday. A few things you gotta look out for the next time you’re in Mombasa:

1. In the morning, they will tell you the bus will leave at 8 sharp. Your poor deluded soul will therefore struggle from the throes of sleep at 5:45 in the morning. Your bus will mockingly leave at 9:30 a.m.

2. The bus will lie to you again, on the outside. (You will realize that much subterfuge will be involved in this trip.) 4 main ones: They will blatantly advertise Air Conditioning, Toilets in the bus, Entertainment provisions and Light Snacks on Board. This will be manifested in high, inoperable windows, semi-filthy toilets where the bus stops to refuel or whatever (which become fully filthy after dark), a tiny television set that doesn’t work (and mocks you the whole way with its blank screen – much mocking on this trip as well) and the light snacks which you BUY at the aforementioned pit stop.

3. The first sign of coastal surroundings will be – of course - palm trees. Very useful landmarks, those. Especially if you feel like there must be a kidnapping plan underway because you’ve been on the bus for so bloody long.

4. The climate change is the second sign. Woe unto you who carried a bulky sweater, for now you are using it to wipe away the rapidly re-forming layers of sweat.

5. However! The city will immediately draw you in with its charm, starting from the guy in the kiosk who charges your phone for free and welcomes you to Mombasa, to the waiter at New Daba Hotel who is really nice to you, cracking jokes on you and ISN’T hitting on you. A refreshing and welcome change.

6. Although finding your bearings is rather difficult, you will soon discover that Mombasarians (Mombasans? Mombis? Coastal folk?) are incredibly friendly and willing to help. Therefore when you ask for a tuktuk, you feel it is highly improbable that any kind of (Nairobian) extortion could possibly be happening, because dude. It’s Coast.

7. How suitable that number 7 should be one of my favorite things about Mombasa. At Nyali Cinemax, there is this place called Caribou Restaurant. The air-conditioning is blessedly…blessing. Ahem. But THEIR OREO MILKSHAKES ARE WORTHY OF A WHOLE NOTE. Now that you and I both now know of this spectacular flavor explosion, there is no need to write a whole note. Caps are so very useful.

8. Upon arrival at your place of stay, you will realize that you are nowhere near Kansas anymore. In fact, if you are indeed at the Coast, there is at least one bar for each person. (I exaggerate here. And am unapologetic, because the truth is still really very close.) You will be momentarily shocked at how quickly plans are being made for a night out on the town (on a Sunday. You know, the day before Monday. Right before Monday. As in, NOT Friday.).

9. Briefly, here, you will be puzzled at how positively lethargic Mombasa makes you feel. Movement is such effort, and wearing clothing seems a futile and useless endeavor. I mean, why? Why wear really long things, when booty shorts are available? Why sleep with a t-shirt on when skin will do just as well? I’m just saying. Mombasa is SUN, SAND and a PERMANENT BLANKET OF INTENSE AND UNRELENTING HEAT. They forget to advertise that part. And then the fan in your room will MOCK you (remember that?) and not work.

10. In spite of the heat, you will still be at the club every night. They are fortunately not too far from your lodging. You will become regulars at a convenient spot, with a table and everything. If you stayed longer, they’d probably give you a token for Customer Appreciation. Unlike Java. Punks. (Mad love, BUT I WANT A TIRE COVER FOR MY NON-EXISTENT CAR TOO, DAMNIT.)

11. Fear may strike your timid heart upon the realization that all the chicks at the club are not just typical girls. Yes. ALL.


12. But your MOTD will overcome this (Moral Obligation To Dunda).

At some point we were walking back from Club Lambada and there were no lights and no people. Brief digression to explain random Ghost Town-ness.

13. When you are walking about in this ghost town, sometimes, a car will pull up and you’ll hear an amusing combination of hope and vulgarity saying ‘Sasa mrembo…’ You will laugh this off because a,you are in a bunch of people and he can’t make good on the scary promise in his voice and b,really? and c,wow, so this is how my mother told me NOT to dress, and d,the delicious taste of defiance of city laws. I laugh in the face of decency! HA!

14. At the beach, you will find a host of men eager to please….get your number. This is another refreshing change from the good-looking-but-cowardly men of Nairobi.

15. You will love love love Mombasa people. In fact, you will suffer withdrawal symptoms when you return to whatever city you purport to hail from. They are the kindest, friendliest people. Simply put, they go out of their way to make sure everyone around them is comfortable. They willingly offer directions (although half the time you are too busy listening to the music of their voices to listen, and have to ask for repeat performances…encore! Encore! Hehe), sometimes even leaving their workplaces to direct you (Alex). They ask you not to forget your luggage in the matatu (matatu girl). They welcome you to their ocean (beach girl). They let you charge your phones for free in their shops and give you candy after (shop guy). I could go on, but I’m lazy.

16. Good Lord those Oreo milkshakes…

tSN

p.s. I DETEST the Ribena bursting berry ad and the DelMonte chosen fruits ads. Chosen? Kwani they’re Jesus? And how the heck is it cool that a fruit is separated from their family and DIES to provide for humanity’s needs? AND IT’S EVEN LESS COOL WHEN THEY SHOW ITS DEMISE. (The berry) Sheesh.

Continuation...

One of my few, few flaws is my laziness. And therefore the question of whether to call JavaGuy i.e. chase him instead of vice versa wore tiresomely upon every fibre of my lethargic and slightly feminist being. I mean, why didn’t he just come over and get my number? Was he a secret agent who couldn’t get up lest the enemy agent in the far booth noticed his presence?

When can a girl chase? Usually the answers are
a. Never.
b. Refer to the above.
c. What are you, desperate?
d. Stop going into public places. You are scary.

But surely times have changed and these answers are not always necessarily applicable? The hunting ground is now fair game, as far as I’m concerned. Granted, you can’t lay it on too thick. But surely the archaic mannerisms of patriarchal ‘courtship’, so to speak, are just that – archaic?...

But he did pay the bill. I had been out of the dating game so long (usually I skipped the initial steps before that last glorious lap called Gratification), I didn’t know what the rules were anymore. Was I supposed to show appreciation for his chivalry? (Regardless of whether or not we were damsels in distress. Would he require redress? So many questions…) Or contempt that he was presumptuous enough to assume that we would pay him any attention after he took care of our tab? Intrigued by his alpha-male beating-my-chest provider side, or awed at his brute cowardliness for not just coming over?

This called for another Java session with one of the girls who had been away during the previous tête-à-tête, and thus was not a witness to The Incident. I told KK to meet me at our usual. Running late after work and deplorable Nairobi traffic made me show up an hour and half late to an infuriated KK who had just decided to leave. A thousand apologies were profusely showered on the victim of bad urban planning, then finally accepted after the peace offering of drinks on me. ‘Come on,’ I coaxed. ‘It’s not like you have to get home…’

Which is how we ended up at a bar on a Wednesday night, looking like the lesbians everyone assumes two girls out alone in Nairobi are. But that’s another post. After KK’s 3rd Long Island, she was claiming she was the one who was late and in fact, punctuality was unAfrican anyway. ‘I haven’t told you about dude,’ she said, suddenly interrupting her speech about the evils of privatization.

‘Huh?’ I said, thinking I should maybe start buying her water, although her tolerance was usually much better –

‘Random dude. At Java. While you were waiting for me-’ I made a valiant effort to hold in my mirth ‘-some dude paid for my milkshake. That was an awesome milkshake. It had the perfect amount of cream, and chocolate chips…’ But at this point my mirth had degenerated into ashy foreboding (like in the cartoons, where Wile E. Coyote becomes cinders after detonating a bomb on his foot, and is then blown away by wind. Then is good to go in the next scene.) ‘Look. He left his card with the waitress.’ The card looked familiar.

Mostly because I had one just like it.

REAlly?

tSN

p.s. Don’t drink and drive. They don’t write it on the crates, but I hear it’s harmful to your health too. Jitolee something something.

The End of an Affair

The human mouth has a surprising amount of saliva. I discovered this once again on my most recent trip to the dentist’s.

Ah, the dentist’s. That chair holds several joyful childhood memories. For me, it has always been a place of great happiness. Looking back, it’s rather ironic that they gave you lollipops when you left. Always loved the dentist’s. Until my teeth became adolescents and started rebelling…i.e. got cavities.(Not milk.)

So the other day I traipse on over for a visit because one of my teeth is hurting. This may have been the beginning of the end of the passionate love affair that was me and the dentist’s chair. I mean dude. It vibrates. And acts like Robocop, with all the fun-sounding whirring. Love was destined to blossom in such optimum conditions (as opposed to in the time of cholera).

So anyway. After waiting for like 2 hours, I finally saw the dentist. (And sat in the chair. Don’t ever forget the chair.) He told me what was wrong with my tooth, etc. During this, of course, he had to look inside my mouth. Then something had to be done in my mouth; enter the suctioning thingy. After annihilating any chance of a steamy rendezvous with the dentist (who really was cute, but really, after you see a girl drooling uncontrollably, a date isn’t the first thing that comes to mind), he gave me a mouthwash that was supposed to have a ‘pleasantly flavored aqueous base.’ The long and short of that was: LIE!!!

There was still hope for this relationship when I came back the next time, toothache again. I got in to see the dentist almost immediately (at last! Reunited with my love: the chair). My dentist this time was a lady (yay! Face: Saved!). I don’t think I can ever really get used to the whole let’s-talk-about-mundane-things-while-doing-surgery thing. You see it in the movies, but assume it never happens…oh, it does. I was thinking the whole time, if I move my tongue, it will be sliced off by the lethal-looking instrument she’s waving about, seeing as she’s not even LOOKING at my mouth while laughing about sijui whose outfit.

And then there’s the 3 injections. As if I wasn’t drooling enough already, she numbed the entire right side of my jaw. It’s really disconcerting when your lip won’t listen to you. Especially when you’re telling it to close. On the plus side, if I had gotten into a violent brawl with say, the dentist’s assistant (or the chair), I would’ve totally won, because I couldn’t feel a thing. My pugilist ambitions would be well realized…as long as she kept hitting my right jaw. (Don’t touch the face? HA! You can’t hurt – um, touch, this!) I was tempted to punch myself, but I settled for chewing nervously on my inner lip.

What bothered me was the fact that I had gone in for a simple check-up, only to be told that I had a broken filling, a cavity and a soon-to-be cavity (when I grow up, I want to be…decaying?). As you can imagine, I now no longer drink soda. The price of sugar is too high to pay. During the surgery, I kept thinking when will it be over…and WHY ISN’T SHE LOOKING INTO MY MOUTH, DAMMIT…

I got out of the chair. At last. I went to the counter to pay my bill. The receptionist then tells me, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, your insurance doesn’t cover dental. And your last bill wasn’t paid either.’

??!?!?!?!!!!

tSN

p.s. Can you believe I only just watched Set It Off? Great movie. Who knew Organized Noise wrote Don’t Let Go (En Vogue)? Me neither. Yes, I don’t know what I was doing with myself in 1996 either. Maybe I was at the dentist’s.

Epilogue slash Continuation...

Apparently the quickest way to get over one man is to get under another one. So I hear. The problem with this mantra is that it assumes that there’s a mass of men about just waiting to be flipped into horizontal positions. It also assumes that it is healthy to constantly be in a relationship or chasing one. Which really cannot be healthy, can it. Because most women know that you shouldn’t need a man to validate you, you shouldn’t be pegging all your happiness on just one person, yaddiyaddiyadda. But the truth for most of these women is that men are like chocolate when you’re on a no-sugar diet. It’s probably bad for you in large quantities. You don’t really NEED any. But you definitely do WANT some.

And so here I was, back to the singlehood that I had never really left. It felt familiar; I knew all my neighbours. (It much resembled the gutter.) I spent inordinate amounts of time staring at my phone and wondering why it was so quiet – then remembering that it had no reason to make noise. I hate that stage, when your foot isn’t completely back through the door and you’re trying extremely hard not to let your (semi/pseudo) ex become your rebound, because it is so ridiculously easy to fall back into the pattern that you know oh so well. What clearer path to follow than the path you have already trod.

In a bid to forget my so-called woes (because really, in life, believe it or not, there are much bigger problems than just singlehood), The Girls and I went to get a cuppa at the nearest Java. I listlessly glanced around, expecting the usual crowd – who did not fail to deliver – and of course, JavaGuy.

So JavaGuy is….drumroll….a guy. Who I always see at Java. In my wildest fantasies, he’s a top secret CID agent/international crime lord/fugitive/random guy under a witness protection plan who is now living undercover and trying to mingle with the common rabble as he gets back on track to whatever he’s planning on doing next. Which, because he’s so uberexciting, is very exciting. So he saw me once from a distance and was so enamored by my ephemeral beauty and noticeable wit (as all my friends were conveniently laughing at a joke I just cracked, and saying things like ‘You’re so funny!’ and ‘Wow, you should totally have a stand-up comedy show…’ This is what is supposed to happen in real life.) that he immediately hired his strongmen/other CID buddies/himself to follow me and trace my every move.

The reason this fantasy exists is because every single time I walk into Java, either he’s already there or shows up within 15 minutes. It’s creepy and exciting all at the same time. Although more exciting than creepy, because he’s not a middle-aged Caucasian male, which is the most common standard profile for serial killers.

So of course he was there. And of course our eyes met, because they always do. And of course there was the usual flicker of recognition, and the appreciative up-and-down glance, because, quite frankly, it’s me – and of course there was me walking away, because I knew him. He was the kinda guy who irritates me so very much – check a girl out, raise her hopes then don’t do anything about it, no, never, can’t do that. Punk.

We sat down and he looked my way. I thought DAMNATION. You already know bloody well what I look like. And you clearly don’t have a pair to your name. So I turned around and continued to chop it up with The Girls. Really loudly, as per usual.

At some point, the waiters begun to put up the chairs, and we thought, perhaps that’s our cue to leave. We had been biding our time until they brought us the bill, but they were taking ages, so we grabbed the excuse to not depart. So we called our waitress over and asked for the bill.

“Your bill has been cleared.” We looked at her, confused. We hadn’t paid our bill. What were these words coming out of her mouth? Maybe she was really tired after a long day. But at the same time, she was looking at us as if we had taken a couple of hard knocks as children, or our mochas had been clearly laced. “The gentleman who cleared it left his card, and asked me to give it to you.” And with that, she placed a card on the table and left.

The Girls and I peered at the card as if it was an alien specimen that was the secret to no wrinkles.

“Nice card,” said MM.

“I guess…”I agreed grudgingly.

“Good quality paper is always a plus,” added PK, who has a knack for summarizing a man’s entire fiscal potential by his shoes and whether he orders a double espresso or a single cappuccino.

“Mm.”

“Will you call him?”

“Well…..we’ll see.” But really? Call him? Classic move of a man who’d rather be chased than do the chasing. Was I really ready for that?

tSN

Ps. Young Kenyans are garnering an obsession with perceived depth through poetry slam sessions and spoken word thingies and the like. But half of the people who perform at these things don’t have friends who tell them they can’t sing/perform/write poetry for sh**. Same thing happened before Caroline Nderitu became ‘famous’. You have been warned.

Of phones and freedoms

I’ve had to say goodbye to two phones in the last six months, with Boyz II Men playing in my head, of course. I have maddest detachment issues, especially to inanimate objects. Maybe it’s because I feel like if the things that can’t move about or run away in my life are changing, there remains no hope for the living, breathing organisms that I dare to call humanity. Basically, I do not enjoy that terrible thing called change. I’m less than amateur at handling it – I’m alien. It is an alien concept. Or should be. (I lie here. Change is good. Or do we just say this as a way of dealing with the supposed inevitable? I could choose to pull a Michael Jackson and get into a hyperbaric chamber to reverse the aging process, thus reducing all possibility of change. Then I’ll buy an amusement park to match my ever-unwrinkling Botox enhanced features. But I digress.)

MOAOTL, my trusty Nokia, did not age with grace. Unlike Madam Berries, my flashy Motorola, who had the simple decency to succumb to a quick fall and split in half. MOAOTL dragged out his disease in a long, messy path, reminiscent of divorces and presidential speeches. The way I treated MOAOTL during his last days made me wonder about my distinct lack of patience with – well, everything, really. For instance, talking about him as if he were dead when he sits next to me on my bed, feebly but faithfully blinking out the arrival of a message. (Wow. I talk about my phones like they’re human. Anyway.) Beating him vigorously when he randomly decides to switch off. Formulating theories about how he is possessed by a demon when he begins to arbitrarily vibrate and use the flashlight (in the daytime), or decide he’s a TV set and show black lines across the screen while emitting a high-pitched squeal. (Ah, KBC memories.) Minus the pretty rainbow colors. I.e. not pretty. He does this thing where he’s jealous of my conversations so he just turns off in the middle of someone’s call. Fun times. (I see many of my friends going so THAT’S what happened.)

All in all, I wasn’t very patient during the DOA. (Death Of Appliance). Makes me wonder how patient I’ll be with age and aging around me. Will I be yelling at my dad, ‘WHY AREN’T YOU WORKING???!!!’ It’s a scary thought. And as for me? Will I be reduced to muttering on street corners about how I’m sure that building is just round the corner, I’ll just step into this alley to take the shortcut? *cue danger music* Yeah….very afraid.

I wish I could end everything when I wanted to. I’m too fearful of an irrelevant future filled with diapers and nursing homes, drooling and people who I can’t remember. Especially since I’m not planning to have children. This isn’t looking like the twilight years I wanted. Maybe that’s the solution. Find a vampire to keep me forever young…I want to be…forever young…

I’ve heard friends of mine say they have deals with God to end it at 60. Which, in my books, is not actually old. I have cousins that age. Maybe 85ish, 90. I mean, Mugabe is still running a country with his octogenarian mind. No one says he has to do it WELL. My question is this, though…how do they know God will deliver? Have they been bribing Gabe?

Well…I AM Kenyan. That could be a plan.

tSN

p.s. You know what’s also scary? Fish bones. They could be a definitely veritable weapon of…assassinry. Feed the guy you want to kill some fillet to lull him into a false sense of security…soak those really thin slivers of bone in arsenic…bingo…it’ll get right to The Bad Guy’s gum, and quickly to the bloodstream. And they won’t even find the bone until 3 days later (I never can) and by then the body will be disposed of. Just a thought.

The Mr. T. Chronicles: Chapter 4 – The End.

Contrary to popular belief, polar bears are indeed left-handed (hehe) and it really is quite easy to get a girlfriend. Yes! I would know because I have dated several. Psyche! I would know because I am a girl. I’ve checked. I’m sure.

To get a girlfriend, speak her language. Yes, it really is that simple. In many Black movies, this can also be translated as ‘treat her right’ (say it with the twang). This is not to be confused with spend oodles of money on her and go to every bridal shower she feels the need to drag you along to. This means find out what she likes and do it for her. It’s not too hard. She likes flowers? Buy her flowers. She likes walks on the beach? Buy a swimsuit (so as to walk on the beach). She likes Chinese food? Oooh, it would be really cute if you could learn how to cook it and make her some at home. Women claim to be complex, but they really aren’t. Just follow the patterns.

Because really, all a woman wants is to feel appreciated. (DISCLAIMER: I bet this is not true for all women. It has become apparent that all some women want is to be abused. Or play games. I know, I don’t get it either.) Be thoughtful. Once in a while. A girl’s earnestest lol desire is to be wooed by Prince Charming. These terribly high expectations, set by Disney, will cost you dearly in the long run before they settle back to reality. But reality can be cool too! Hehe. That Luther song is a sure formula. Buy me a rose, et al. Ok though flowers die. So they’re kinda pointless. But if that’s her kinda thing, hey...

If you like a girl, like her. Text her. Or Facebook her, whatever, if she doesn’t have the Nokia 1100. Communication – in her language. I.e. if she doesn’t like being texted, don’t. :o)

At 3:30 a.m. in the morning, I dragged Mr. T. onto his bed in his state of solid inebriation. He was still coherent – that may be the wrong word to use there – enough to mutter my name as I threw his bulk on his bed and tried to cover him with his Superman duvet. (DISCLAIMER: This is not true. He does not have a Superman duvet. But it’s my blog. I can make him look silly and have bad – sorry, abominable, taste in superheroes if I want to – AT THE SAME TIME. He. He.) As I was about to leave to meet Macha, my trusty cab guy, Mr. T. flung his arm around me and said ‘Please be my girlfriend.’

I was locked in a death grip with a madman. Fortunately for me, he then proceeded to pass out.

Surely, surely, I was worth more than a random drunk proposal? Surely I was above cartoon duvets and wayward, haphazard propositions? Surely I had not sunk this low?

I walked out. It’s never that serious.

The Mr. T. Chronicles, Chapter 3: Halfway to The End

And so, my dignity firmly over the (apparently nearby) horizon, I caved like a badly-made soufflé midweek and used my phone for what it was meant to be used for.

The following events take place between Saturday, 9am and Sunday, 3am.

tSN: Hi.:) (first sign of incredible weakness – a SMILEY)

MrT: Hey how are you? Why so quiet? (PUNKASS!!)

tSN: Busy busy busy…you know me. (enter aggravation at having texted in the first place. Damn my weak/non-existent will!!)

MrT: I’ve missed you. (Cue giggles, and a stampede away from logic. Goodbye aggravation, hello my inner High School Girl.) (NOTE. Instead of, PUNKASS!! Then why haven’t you texted? It’s OVER! et al, et al)

tSN: :)

MrT: Can I see you tonight?

tSN: (making ZERO effort to be busy, and giving NO thought to saying – what’s that word? – no) What’re you doing tonight?

MrT: We’re doing Flamingo. (hip yet chilled joint for up-and-coming yuppies with an intense desire to prove how urban and successful they are. But good cocktails. Which is a great exchange for my shame.)

tSN: I’ll let you know then. (trying to save a dismally hopeless…whatever)

MrT: Pick you up at 9?

tSN: Determined, aren’t we… (Arrogant, sexy jerk! I won’t give in! I won’t! Ok, we can be resolute tomorrow. What to wear?...)

MrT: Decisive would be the word.

tSN: Ok then. See you at 9.:) (RAWWRRR!!! ALL SYSTEMS GO!)

Flamingo. 2:45 a.m. Great music. Great non-boyfriend talking to other guys and gals (what if he’s bi??!) exhibiting classic Mr. T. symptoms.

tSN: He’s a burr drunk. I don’t think he can drive, babe.

MM: So how’re you going to get home?

tSN: I’ll call a cab. But can’t exactly leave him here, can I. Oh gosh as he trips on a bar stool. I’m terrible at babysitting.

MM: Really? Lol. A man after my own heart. Y’all clearly need to call it a night, though.

tSN: Yeah…think I’ll take him home.

MM: In his car?

tSN: Yeah, then take a cab. Why is he drunk? Aren’t I supposed to be the one drowning my sorrows? Ok here he comes I’ll text you lat

And that is how I found myself at Mr. T.’s house at 3:15 a.m. on a fine Sunday morning.

*beep*
*beep*
*beep*
*beep*

An Essay on Love

So here’s my question. If everyone is so obsessed with finding love, making movies about love, writing songs about love, talking about love, analyzing love, sometimes even stalking love…- if everyone wants to fall in love so much, why is it so hard to then? I mean, logic dictates that if there’re a bunch of people looking for the same thing in other people – I think it’s safe to say that at least half of the world’s population are in search of The One – then should this not increase (drastically so) the odds of therefore falling in love?

I liken it to sex. (I briefly digress here. Has anyone ever read the menus at Books First? The quotes are hilarious. One says, Pizza is a lot like sex. When it’s good, it’s really good, and when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. He. He. He. Back to not digressing.) If you look at the statistics, it is incredibly easier to get laid than to fall in love. That’s because everyone wants that, too. Especially if you’re a nympho. (Which is why prostitutes have more business than priests.) Sex is easy to find. But according to existing literature and film, all whores (I use this word loosely. Haha, pun intended!) are actually looking for meaningful sex, just want love because they’ve been scarred and all one night stands are merely an expression of some deep inner need to be committed to – you got it – The One.

Hmmm. Ok. So what’s going wrong with the Great Love Search? I’ve heard a couple of theories. One is that people look for love in the wrong places. Well then, shouldn’t some benevolent one who has reached the final destination (Happily Ever After) publish a list of conducive places where love can be found? (Aha! Could this be the theory behind the Lonely Hearts Column? And if there’s anywhere that love should be found, should it not be here? Hehe.) And really. Why is there a ‘right’ place to find love? Again, I refer to existing literature and film that generally supports the principle that love can and should be found anywhere. So now. So now what if you’re not there when Aphrodite’s going a-hunting? What if you miss the crucial moment when your destiny was being altered and you are now doomed to loneliness forever? (Who watches Valentine?)

Another is the ‘Ýou haven’t met The One’ philosophy. Okay, really. Am I supposed to believe that there is ONE person handpicked for me in the entire world, the only person I can be truly happy with? That sounds like male cow fertilizer to me. Again, what if you never meet this person because they’re in Bermuda, and you live in…not Bermuda, and you never visit because of the tales of horror surrounding that general geographical location. I’m just saying. And how do you know The One? Do they wear a sign? In a parallel universe, perhaps. And what if you get married and then meet The One, or who you think is The One, split up, meet another The One…are you then pre-conditioned to a remake of Elizabeth Taylor’s life? I think anyone can be The One. You’re the one who picks The One. They’re YOUR One. I’m still in the process of tearing this theory down, though. Give me time.

And then there’s the ‘Don’t look for love and it’ll find you.’ HA! EVERYONE’S LOOKING FOR LOVE. So screw that. I laugh in the face of that untruth. (Refer to 2nd line of paragraph. 1st word.)

I think that if there’s anything Sex and The City taught me, it’s that don’t bother looking for love before the age of 30. Anyone who is in love before then is the exception to the rule, i.e. not you. Good men are a dying breed – because they’re getting closer and closer to 70, haha, and are thus harder to find at 21.

I have no conclusive end to this essay. It was just a rant inspired by watching romcoms at 3 in the morning. Can I just say that Hugh Grant is such a beautiful, beautiful man, in spite of his DUI episode, and I could be quite happily convinced to have his babies. Or at least, try making them. See? Demand and Supply. I’m just saying.

tSN

The Mr. T. Chronicles: Chapter 2: The Middle

Phones can be so incompliant. No matter how long you stare at them, they refuse to ring. Or buzz. Or go shove the shoulder of the person you want to holla and MAKE THEM TALK TO YOU. Sigh.

I was once again, willing WITH ALL MY MIGHT Mr. T. to text me. The ultimate female pastime. I had managed to get myself into a rather sticky situation. It had started out quite promising; a no-strings-attached (and really awesome) physical liaison. I unfortunately had not counted on my treacherous heart falling for the elusive Mr. T. Which left me in this state: supposedly in a BootyBuddy relationship, but liking the guy I’m not supposed to be emotionally attached to. The inner turmoil was amusing (because I got myself into it with no firearms or mind-altering drugs involved) and yet agonizing, because he wasn’t supposed to know (no matter how bad an actor I was. If I hadn’t admitted to anything, I was sticking to the script. But how long could I keep it up…). So I couldn’t call him or text him or anything (refer to The Mr. T. Chronicles: Prequel) because those weren’t the dynamics of our understanding…and I couldn’t see him either because again, dynamics. Casual lunch dates were a figment of my wistful imagination…usually we’d just skip to dessert. Marion had already caught me sneaking about her office and given me suspicious looks…the cat was clawing its way out of the bag, really. So that left me here…about to put a hurt on my phone because the screen hadn’t changed since the last time I looked at it 20 seconds ago.

In my defense…or in my delusion, I had begun to feel like there was something more on his side too. But being female, you can never really trust your gut where…um…dessert…is involved. Dessert tends to cloud your judgment. But still. Like when he-

BZZ!! There IS a God. Oh wait….He may be sleeping. It wasn’t Mr. T. Of course it wasn’t. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it. I silently and inwardly shook my fist at the cold, cruel world.

Well well well. It was Mr. M. Those guys who are on the ‘Maybe’ list, but only because there was someone very prominenTly feaTured on The ‘CurrenT’ lisT. If you caTch my drifT. I texted hiM back, and conTinued To waiT-

BZZ!! O….k. Mr. M. again. Saying a couple of interesting things. Hmmm. He wasn’t usually this proactive. And there was another text within two minutes of the next one… Damnation. Drinks? Really? I mean, Mr. M. was tempting enough, make no mistake, he fit right into my weakness for fine men, but…he wasn’t Mr. T. So now. But then again, I wasn’t in a relationship with Mr. T., so why the feeling of disloyalty to something that didn’t exist?

Ok, so I needed a sign. Any sign. Aaaaaaaaaany day now. Some supernatural arrow to point me in the right direction. I was desperate here. Caught between two really, really soft places. I needed something to tell me-

BZZ!!

Damnation.

An Essay on Space

Definition: (in thesaurus) room…breathing space…freedom…liberty…legroom…gap…opening…universe…cosmos…area…

White space: The space on a page to ease your eyes, often used by journalists and print enthusiasts to make you feel like you are not reading as much as you think you are.

Outer space: The world outside of our own that nations everywhere are fighting over, in an age-old dance of dominance, as if man could actually own land and the cosmos are in our control.

Personal space: A concept alien to most Kenyans, especially when standing in queues, that is supposed to provide breathing room, sweating room and fidgeting room. Ideally at least a hand length from the person in front of you. Again. ALIEN to most Kenyans. See also justice, logic, youthful governance.

Airspace: The area above us, often polluted with helicopters that use half of annual taxes.

Space (a) : The expansive distance between several people’s heads that results in close-minded thinking and incredible incomparable astounding stupidity.

Space (b) : Closely related to (a); an indefinable word used to express indecisiveness in relationships, supposedly to allow for better decision-making and take away a feeling of entrapment.

The Mr. T. Chronicles : Chapter 1- The Beginning

It was a dark, stormy night.* Fortunately, I was inside a warm living room*, sipping on a glass of semi-glamorous and entirely sober Alvaro*. Those loose, unnecessary cover-ups that are an excuse to get together and drink. For my other friends, of course.*

It had been a pleasant evening. Ribald jokes, lewd humor and good not-too-stale gossip. I was ready to call it a night.* You know the rule: leave while the party is still kicking, instead of in the wee hours of the morning when the sun is rising and it’s the first light you’ve seen in 24 hours. I don’t pull those moves, bana.*

The door opened. One can never be too late for these things, I thought as I uninterestedly and yet automatically turned to the door to see who it was. It didn’t really matter, of course. It was just subconscious movement, preprogrammed. There was no one there who I didn’t already know, no one I was particularly interested in*, so –

Well, well. For once, my genius was wrong. (This was a rare occasion.) A man walked in. Unobtrusive, but…not at all bad-looking, on the whole. I wonder who invited him? And who he was? And if the person who invited him was female? Not that I cared.*

My questions were soon answered when my friend Marion (owner of the afore-mentioned living room) squealed and said, ‘Everyone, this is Michael. We work together.*’ Wonder if they were taking in any new employees? I watched her hand on his elbow. Not a possessive we’re-dating-and-I’m-watching-all-the-women-in-this-room. More like a be-nice-to-him-he’s-a-newbie. Score.

I’m a very friendly person.* I like to make people feel comfortable, and at home.* Even when it’s not my home.* So in the spirit of true hospitality, I went over to Michael. To welcome him to the fold and all.* And in a normal, lust-free voice*, I said ‘Hi. I’m Abby. Marion and I went to school together. Do you want a drink?’

He looked at me. A friendly gaze, guarded, but still friendly. As if to say I don’t know anyone here, but give me about 5 minutes and I’ll be back on top. Where I’m used to being. Me imagining him saying those words didn’t help my composure. He said, ‘Sure.’ I led him to the minibar.

This wasn’t going to be so hard.*

tSN

* Lie.